Mariela’s Sunday Thoughts: Jump

My husband and I moved into a new house this past January. For the first few months we focused on unpacking and decorating, but our project got interrupted in April, when the idea of Grounded happened. Since then, all of my “free” time was put towards the studio and the house was left behind with many half-way done projects and unhung art.

Now that Grounded is more or less running on its own thanks to the kindness, dedication, and generosity of everyone that’s part of it, I got my time (and mind) back and can go back to making our house feel like our home.

The project we’re working on this weekend consists of displaying photos. We’ve never been the type to have lots of pictures out there on display - we usually keep them tucked away in an album or worse, a harddrive somewhere.

It’s nice to have a visual reminder of the people in our lives, the experiences we’ve had, the places we’ve seen, the meals we’ve enjoyed. So we tasked ourselves with finding a hand full of images we’d like to display. The only criteria: when we look at them, they have to make us smile.

This task took me into a rabbit hole through my own camera roll: over a decade of thousands of pictures (most of them of incredibly poor quality, despite me trying my best to focus on the object and take a decent photo). Blurry images of joyful moments throughout my life threw me back to who I was at each stage. I saw the brave girl that took a break from Med school to go to India alone as a first trip overseas ever, smiling next to a friendly street cow. I saw the history nerd that finally visited Greece thinking of her grandma and how they used to read history books and look at the world atlas every Wednesday after school. I saw the heartbroken girl sitting on her yoga mat in Bali, trying to figure out where to go next. I saw the friends I made, the weird food I ate, the dances I learnt, the chances I took. I saw me alone, me in company. I saw who’s now my husband literally be in the picture. I saw the adventures, the curiosity, and the entire world being explored.

What caught my eye the most was this one video: a 50 second 2017 GoPro clip of me standing on the edge of this platform, suspended almost 500ft in the air, right in the middle of the jungle. I was wearing a bright pink jacket I had borrowed from one of my traveling friends, I had braided my hair in preparation (my go-to style when I was facing a serious adventure), and my friends and I had booked this experience the night before, on a whim, after having spent the day zip lining in Costa Rica and I realized I was still afraid of free-falling.

We were sitting on the floor of our hostel room, all three of us exhausted after a day at the zip line park. We were chatting, laughing, and hyping each other up fueled by the leftover adrenaline of a day well lived. We were discussing the giant swing we went on after the last zip line and I told them how at first I didn’t enjoy it because of the initial free-fall aspect of it.

My dislike of free falling has been with me my entire life, and I’ve always chosen to just be with it. The first memory I have of it is my dad pushing me on the swing. Coming back from what then seemed so high up didn’t feel great but as every 3 or 4 year old would do, I asked for “higher, higher”.

Things got more interesting when I got old enough (or should I say “tall enough”?) to go on roller coasters: the speed was great, the best thing I had ever experienced. The free fall? Unsurprisingly, not so much. But I still kept going.

On my 29th birthday, I decided to face the Final Boss of free-falling and I celebrated it by jumping off of a plane in Mexico. Once again, I absolutely hated the first part - but loved floating over a paradisiac beach once the chute opened.

It was just three months after my skydiving adventure that my friends and I were having that floor conversation. I suddenly remembered seeing a brochure in the lobby, talking about how we just happened to be where the highest bungee jump in the world (at that time) was. So as we were talking about how I didn’t like free-falling, I stood up, ran to the lobby and, without giving it a thought, signed ourselves up for the next morning. We were going to jump.

The tour company bus picked us up early the next morning and took us to the jungle. We arrived to the bungee jumping place, signed an unbelievable amount of release forms, gave them our parent’s contact information, and headed over to a bridge that would lead us to a sort of crane. We then took an elevator to a suspended platform that, once we were secured to it with the help of the two safety experts on board, traveled in the air, into the jungle. Above us: the sky. Below us: thick, dense, jungle. Hundreds of feet in between.

My friend Jaime was the first one to go. She had done it many times already so, once they triple-checked her, and counted her down, she just dove into nothingness, laughing and screaming in the process until we couldn’t hear her anymore.

Once the brought Jaime back up to the platform, it was Leike’s turn: they clipped her, triple-checked her, she decided to turn around and let herself fall backwards.

My turn was getting closer and closer, and my heart was racing.

Almost ten years later, I find myself asking why. Why did I decide to do something that was so uncomfortable? Why did I ask my dad to push my swing to go higher? Why did I jump off of a plane? Why do I still actively seek rollercoasters? Why did I sign myself up for literally the highest bungee jump I could find?

Curiosity lead us to knowledge. The trick, though: often curiosity lies within discomfort. It pushes us to explore the unknown, to be in unfamiliar places, to be part of strange circumstances, to interact with the new, the mysterious, the intriguing.

I wanted to learn more about myself. I wanted to show my body what could happen if I suddenly found myself immersed in my mind’s biggest fear. I wanted to experience trusting another human with my life, and I wanted to have the opportunity to breathe in the jungle from above.

They clipped me, triple-checked me, wrapped my arms around my chest. I closed my eyes. I could hear him counting down. I yelled “no!” when he reached 2. He stopped. I turned around, they said I could do it, they said they got me, they said I would have fun.

Back to facing the edge of the platform. The countdown re-started.

5

4

3

I could feel him pushing me more and more towards the edge. I told him I wasn’t going to jump. He said “OK”, but then…

2

Only one inch of my heals was on the platform. He was right, I wasn’t going to jump.

1

He pushed me.

As a yogi, I’ve always believed that we’re in deep connection with oneness. When we pay attention, that connection will guide us through the path that is right for us.

Whenever we find ourselves lost or on the wrong path, the universe will start giving us little hints showing us there’s another way. These hints will get more and more aggressive the more we ignore them. In other words: when we refuse to jump, life will give us a firm push.

I kept my eyes closed during the first 2 or 3 seconds of the fall. When I opened them, a smile drew all over my face, my arms started flying, I let go of the fear and welcomed the uncertainty of the present moment. Regardless of the outcome, wether the cord caught me or not, I was at that very moment flying.

Dukha is the Sanskrit word we use to refer to discomfort or suffering. It describes the physical, emotional, and existential discomfort that arises from life’s challenges, unmet desires, and attachments. In yoga philosophy, dukha is not seen as punishment or failure, it is a reality of human life and a catalyst for awakening. By recognizing the causes of suffering, we create space for freedom from it.

Once we understand what our dukha is, we can choose to transit it from a place of curiosity, knowing that Sukha (the sweetness of being at ease) could very well be on the other side.

The first thing I said once they brought me back up into the platform and Pablo, the guy that had pushed me extended his hand to me, was “gracias por empujarme” (“thank you for pushing me”). My low quality GoPro video shows me saying it, and I am so glad I have that as a reminder of how, sometimes, knowing what our path is isn’t enough, and we need that extra push to actually take the jump.

The adrenaline of that night was off the charts, and we stayed up talking until 3am.

Jaime asked me why I’d been single for so long, and if I didn’t want to meet someone. To which I replied “I’m very content alone, but if the right person shows up, I’m ready”.

The next morning, after oversleeping and missing our bus, we ended up having a long layover at the bus station in San Jose. We were bored and the adrenaline from the day before was starting to wear off.

We still had two more hours to go when I saw three people walk into the station. One of them, this tall, handsome guy, was carrying a surfboard and a copy of The Alchemist.

That was the day I met my husband.

A simple prompt to explore your Dukha:

Think of your daily life. Do you find a pattern, experience, or situation that brings you discomfort? Bring attention to it.

What if you could face or transit it with the knowledge of finding Sukha on the other side? Would you be more at ease?

Write about it or picture yourself going through it in a mindful, present way. Describe the sukha you find: how you made it just fine, how you’re still here, safe and complete.

A Yoga pose to connect with sukha: Savasana (corpse pose):

Find a quiet spot and set a timer for five minutes. Lay down on a flat surface, maybe with a blanket on top. Make it comfortable and enjoyable, you’re open to experience the sweetness that awaits for you on the other side of suffering. Draw a smail on your face and breathe deeply through the nose and out through the mouth until the times goes off. Do it as slowly as you can, stretching the inhalations and exhalations, savoring every moment of the breath.